Mitzi peered into the purse nestled on the table beside her hip. Inside coiled a roll of bills. Back at her condo a room held nothing but money.
Before doctors had become sawbones…Before psychologists had been headshrinkers, they’d all been seers. They’d been fortune-tellers, temple whores, shamans. As such they were trained to read the best tells people presented. Subtle aspects of body language, skin tone, scent. They could diagnose the unrecognized problem by asking evocative, probing questions. At least that was how Dr. Adamah explained his gift. Having attended medical school in Port-au-Prince, he had a skill set that went beyond physical diagnosis. To him everything was a ritual. Ritual was everything.
How long had she been consulting with him? Mitzi sifted through her memory. Schlo it was, Schlo or some other producer who’d referred her. Back when the rage that had fueled her first kill was spent, and she’d needed something more to do the next job.
Mitzi wasn’t sold on the mumbo jumbo, but she had no idea how penicillin worked. She’d still take it if need be.
Leaning over the sink, the doctor examined the scorched ashes as if they were tea leaves in a cup. He asked, “Does the name Shania Howell mean anything to you?”
At the mention of the name, Mitzi pictured the waitress from the diner but nothing more.
“She’s at peace,” said the doctor. “And you are forgiven because your actions have delivered her to a place of bliss and fulfillment beyond any she’d known on Earth.”
Ready for the next part of the ritual, Mitzi took a pad of paper and a pen from her handbag.
The doctor studied the ashes. “Her parents reside at 947 East Placer Drive in Ogden, Utah.”
Mitzi jotted down the address and waited.
“They owe,” the doctor announced, “approximately eighty-five thousand on their second mortgage and thirty-one thousand on their originating.”
Mitzi made a note to send two hundred thousand in cash. Her money room at the condo was as packed as any hoarder’s warren. Stockpiled were so many bales and cartons of banded five-hundred-dollar bills, a person could hardly venture a step within the door. She scratched out the first number and resolved to send an anonymous carton containing three hundred thousand.
The smoke shifted, swirled and eddied in the small room like so many ghosts. A bitter smell. Legions of lost souls crowding around them. Mitzi tried not to inhale.
At the sink the doctor turned on the taps and used his fingers to direct the water so that it washed the ashes toward the drain. He dried his hands with a paper towel and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Next, he opened a drawer and produced a blank sheet of paper, an envelope, a pen.
Placing the paper on the countertop, he spoke as he wrote, “Dear Mummers and Paw-paw…” This voice wasn’t his own. It twanged and drawled. Neither was the handwriting his. The letters looped in the style of a high school student.
Mitzi had witnessed this before, too often to keep track of. Automatic writing channeled from the spirit world.
“Don’t try to find me,” continued the doctor. As he filled the page, Dr. Adamah said, “I love you and me-maw so much.” These same words looped and scurried across the page. “She may not know it, but little Braylene is carrying a child, and she must marry the boy. It’s decreed.” The florid handwriting paused.
The doctor turned over the sheet and continued on the reverse side. “I will greet all of you, very soon, and we will all share our love forever.” Dr. Adamah signed the letter with the name Shania.
His latex-gloved hands folded the paper and slipped it into the envelope. He wet a fingertip in the sink and rubbed it along the glue strip to seal the letter inside.
Not that Mitzi could make sense of it all, but the words of the letter washed her with a warm comfort. They seemed to absolve her of sins that Mitzi had made sure she couldn’t recall. She knew not to ask for details. She didn’t want to know more.
The doctor plucked a tissue from a box and wrapped the tissue lightly around the letter before offering the wrapped envelope.
Mindful not to leave fingerprints, Mitzi accepted it.
At the tail end of evening rush hour, Foster pulled to the curb. In front of the Student Union building she stood clutching a thick textbook. She waved and shouted, “Dad! Over here!” If the book was real or a prop, it was a nice touch.
She leaned in the driver’s-side window and gave him a peck on the cheek. She darted around the front of the car and climbed in the shotgun seat. Clicked her seat belt. Placed the book between them on the seat. She was wearing the birthday pearls.
Foster panicked at the idea that without her to recite his stories, he’d forget them. But maybe that was the goal all along.
As he checked his side mirror and signaled to pull out, he asked, “Do you remember the pony we rented?”
He wanted to start her on easy events. Like testing her in some obscure catechism. First, the pony episode. Then, the roasting pan lesson. The Gospel of Lucinda. He’d drilled her until she must’ve known Lucinda’s childhood better than she knew her own. He reached the book next to his hip and flipped it open. A text on the Dramatic Arts. He lay the usual fee between the pages and closed it.
As if unaware, she looked away, observing the buildings they passed. The people who lined the sidewalks.
Perhaps she was buying time to think. But now, her eyes bright with confidence, Lucinda threw herself into the role. “The pony? Of course I remember. Dog Biscuit.” The correct name of the pony. “My last day in second grade.” The correct occasion. “I wore these brand-new Keds I didn’t want to get dirty—”
“They were red,” Foster interrupted.
“They were blue. Light blue.” She was
